


Struggle for Pleasure

by lesnuffles



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Post-The Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 08:54:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesnuffles/pseuds/lesnuffles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victor could give him what he wanted, because they were exactly alike: he didn’t care, he never cared, not since the first time Sherlock showed up at his door, after years without contact, just to tell him he needed his help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Struggle for Pleasure

All Sherlock could see was red. Everything was covered in  blood. He licked his lips,  
tasting a bittersweet tang that came with the strange pleasure of burning under the  
flick of his tongue.

 _This is certainly the end_ , he thought, and he felt oddly comfortable with the idea.  
Wasn’t everything he had done in the past few months simply looking for death in  
every corner? All he longed for was a more honorable suicide—one that would last  
this time.

He didn’t try to fight it; he slid his back down the wall, feeling his entire body  
shaking, and he counted what might have been his last several heart beats as he  
wondered how long it would take. _This is how he would die_. A small smile creeped  
upon his lips. _A_ soldier _’s death_?

And then, suddenly, his whole body shivered. He coughed, and as the pain seeped  
deeper and deeper into his bones, he felt incredibly _alive_. He leaned against the wall,  
bracing himself as he stood up and began to walk. Every step was painful, but he  
kept pushing on, and on, and on. He was alive; he had survived because his stubborn  
body refused to fail. He couldn’t give up, and once again he found himself forcing  
one foot in front of  the other, determined to carry on.

It was completely dark, and Sherlock felt the ground spinning under him, but he  
kept his balance and continued walking, knowing exactly where he needed to go. He  
gritted his teeth to keep from shouting as the rough texture of his battered coat  
rubbed against the burning wound. Step by step, one after the other, he dragged his  
bleeding body, panting, his skin in searing pain as if it were on fire.

A door. A window. A light. For a moment, his heart filled with a wild, instinctive joy,  
because there was someone inside, someone who had turned on the light waiting for  
his return, and he hurried his pace, reaching out his hand for the door. He leaned on  
it, scratching his knuckles on the wood. His strength was so sapped that he couldn’t  
call out _that_ name. A part of him knew it wouldn’t be answered, anyway.

“Sherlock!”

A deeper voice than he was expecting shouted from inside, and Sherlock closed his  
eyes before they could begin to water. The vanished hope dried his mouth. As soon  
as the door opened, he stopped fighting to stand up, and when he nearly fell inside,  
thin arms grabbed him and hauled him to the bed. Paler fingers than the ones he  
remembered moved a few stray dark curls from his sticky forehead.

“Sherlock, you got shot!”

The detective blinked, trying to focus on the face of the man bent toward him and  
ripping his shirt off with shaking hands in an attempt to find the wound. It was only  
after a few seconds that he was able to distinguish the dark hair, the pale skin, the  
silver watch on his right wrist, and the rolled-­‐up white sleeves.

Somehow, Sherlock felt a hoarse, cold laughter rise up from his throat.

“They shot me, Victor!”

Victor licked his lips and passed a hand through his hair, out of breath. He had  
managed to get Sherlock’s blood-­‐encrusted shirt off and was looking at his bare  
chest. He seemed to feel sick for a moment as he took a step back, his voice  
trembling.

“We’ll need to clean it, if it isn’t already infected, and get bandages—“

Sherlock saw him turn his back and disappear behind the bathroom door, just to  
return moments later with a white case. He frantically pulled out the necessary  
equipment. Sherlock laughed again. Victor couldn’t see it; he couldn’t understand it.

“The shoulder, Victor! The left shoulder!”

His whole body shook with waves of laughter, and he felt the pain burning into his  
skin, like a thousand knives piercing his chest. His eyes were filled with tears as the  
grin slowly slipped away from his face. Was it the left shoulder? _His_ wound, was it  
on the left? Sherlock couldn’t remember. It seemed like ages ago _he_ had told him,  
and he couldn’t recall…he needed to ask _him_ again…

“Christ, Sherlock, hold still!”

But Sherlock didn’t care; he couldn’t care less about the bandages or the stinging  
disinfectant cleaning his wounds. There was something else, a deeper, stronger pain  
that was consuming him from the inside. It was loss, distance, the fact that they  
were torn apart, and he couldn’t go back. He couldn’t see _him_ , and God knew if he’d  
be able to touch _him_ again.

Victor put his hands on him, lightly caressing his aching shoulder with gentle  
touches, and Sherlock closed his eyes. He took Victor’s hands and held them tightly,  
putting them to his face and imagining they were _his_ , that _he_ was back.

“Sherlock, what the hell are you—“

But it was Victor—Victor’s voice and Victor’s thin fingers he was holding—and  
Sherlock’s eyes opened to meet his with a greedy gaze he had never seen in _his_ eyes,  
and suddenly it was far too much. Sherlock didn’t want to think anymore. He just  
wanted to forget.

Sherlock lifted himself up on the bed, leaning on his elbow as he reached out a hand.  
He twirled his fingers in Victor’s hair and pushed him close, glad to notice he didn’t  
say anything and instead merely grinned and bent toward him.

They kissed. Victor’s lips were sweet and tender on Sherlock’s; they matched their  
movements as Victor’s tongue gently explored Sherlock’s mouth, but Sherlock  
wasn’t looking for sweetness or tenderness. He wanted Victor: Victor’s body against  
his; Victor’s hands taking off his clothes and making him forget everything else;  
Victor’s warm skin pressing against his wounds and making them burn, because  
pain was delightful, pain was blinding…

And Victor could give him what he wanted, because they were exactly alike: he  
didn’t care, he never cared, not since the first time  Sherlock showed up at his door,  
after years without contact, just to tell him he needed Victor’s help. He silently let  
Sherlock back into his home and his life, a quiet grin on his lips.

He didn’t ask questions when Sherlock came back oneevening covered in blood;  
Victor merely cleaned it up. And when Sherlock returned shaking and half‐dead  
from hours of wandering in the snow, Victor gave him a blanket and a clear drink in  
an elegant glass and sat next to him in front of the fireplace.

“It’s nice to have you back, Sherlock,” he had said.

That same night, Sherlock woke up shaking, his head still filled with images of the  
blood, the remaining fragments of the nightmare still lingering in his mind. In the  
darkness, he felt Victor’s body slip against his, and soon his lips had wiped away all  
of Sherlock’s unvoiced screams.

But now it wasn’t enough. It couldn’t be enough, because the nightmares were  
stronger, and the distance was becoming more unbearable. _His_ absence was killing  
Sherlock, more efficiently than all of Moriarty’s network. He pulled Victor closer, his  
nails scratching his skin as he grabbed at his back. He couldn’t see clearly anymore;  
more blood had fallen on his eyelid and everything has red again—the room, the  
bed, the sheets, Victor’s grin. Victor kissed his shoulder and made it burn even more.

Sherlock opened his mouth to moan, searching for air, and as pain and excitement  
both rose up under his skin, he laughed strongly again before crying, and Victor  
whispered something he wasn’t able to catch. The pain  was wonderful and  
addicting. He bent his head back. Victor’s body felt so real; he was there, so why did  
anything else have to hurt so badly? Why couldn’t he just forget?

As though his mindwere tricking him, Sherlock suddenly remembered _his_ face, so  
clean and detailed that he might have just seen _him_ a couple days ago. He imagined  
himself going home again, ready to stretch out on the sofa and hearing _him_ complain  
about the milk. The sound of his voice seemed to whisper into his ear, and Sherlock  
shook his head, his eyes closed, when he heard Victor’s voice speaking instead.

“It’s all right, Sherlock. It’s all right.”

Victor had stopped. He was only a few inches from Sherlock’s face, and a sad smile  
appeared on his own as he caressed Sherlock again with his long, pale fingers, so  
different from the ones the detective was craving for.

A shiver shook Sherlock’s body, his heart racing and his shoulder burning. His  
panting breath was the only thing breaking the silence as the deep, soaring  
emptiness in his chest grew larger and larger, devouring him.

Sherlock stayed still for a moment, then held out his hand to grab Victor’s hair again  
and force him close enough for a kiss, hoping his mouth would wipe out John’s  
name, still stuck on his lips.


End file.
